


Outside In

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:59:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's ready for it though, letting slick hands bracket Rodney's spine and press.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Outside In

There's a balance. Neither of them are particularly sure where it is, what boundaries it crosses, or where the edges are -- they just know it's there. Present, and needed, and strictly adhered to by both sides.

So when the door slides shut with a hiss, John stops mid-tease. "You okay?"

Rodney nods, silent, which is as sure a sign as any that he's absolutely not okay. Then: "Yeah, um. Lemme go just -- "

"Don't." John doesn't mean for the word to come out so harshly, but once it's there he doesn't want to take it back. Sometimes Rodney falls too far over his side of the line, and it's up to John to remind him.

Give what he receives.

Rodney isn't aware of John's stillness, too busy rolling his eyes. "I'm _fine_. Really. If you'll just let me clean up a little, I'll -- "

The kiss is slow, gentle, muffling Rodney's words until he instinctively responds. It's so close to the boundary that John's stomach aches with it, but it doesn't cross anything at all. "Hey. My turn, okay?"

This time, Rodney's eye-gesture is one of confusion, light reflecting off of wide, blood-shot whites. "Um. Okay?"

The pinch in John's chest releases but he can't help the, "Is it?"

That seems to be the key and Rodney's expressive faces undergoes a variety of emotions; dirt and grime over top makes each one more painful than it should be. "Yeah," he says eventually, melting forward so his head is on John's shoulder. His voice is dull and aching, but this time in relief. "Yeah, it is."

Thank god Rodney's a genius. Thank god both of them have worked out codes for the things neither wants to actually give voice to. Wrapping his arms around Rodney's body, John waits until the fine tremors ease, his heat and familiarity giving Rodney the space John knows he's craved since unceremoniously falling through the gate.

About eight hours before.

Lt. Colonel Sheppard couldn't afford to let Rodney postpone the briefings with the senior staff or the long, long ultimately reassuring visit with Beckett, but he could ache with and for Rodney.

Cognizant of that, John waits until he's certain. There are cues here, understanding earned through different patterns, but still applicable all the same. John uses every one of those to monitor Rodney's reactions as he leads him over to the bathroom, easing him onto the closed toilet seat.

"It's warm in here," Rodney says. "Did you -- "

Lights flash just a little and John smiles. "Didn't need to." It's a running gag, how well Atlantis takes care of her chosen people. Both of them know that it probably isn't anything more than the little-understood mental component to Ancient technology, but it feels better to think of it as semi-conscious and directed.

John pats the wall in absent thanks before removing the top of Rodney's scrubs. "I wish we had baths," he says as he begins to sponge away the grit the frantic medical team had ignored, certain there were no injuries underneath. Rodney's skin is dull even after it's bared, chilled and clammy, and John runs the water even hotter when he re-wets the cloth. "You look like a man who needs a bath."

"Do men have baths? Isn't that something that's been appropriated by females? I thought we were left with manly showers, or finding rainstorms to stand under."

It's not quite up to Rodney's usual banter -- some words are slurred, and the snap, crackle, pop is lacking in the rest -- but it's better than the monosyllabic responses from before. John carefully cleans the fragile skin between Rodney's hairline and the back of his ear. "Maybe Atlantis can show us a bath tub, later."

Rodney opens his mouth, clearly wanting to respond, but John's wet cloth finds dirty, abraded skin on his chest and for a moment, all he can do is gasp and pant and lock his jaw.

"You'll grind your molars to dust if you do that," John says, the way his mother used to chastise her husband and son.

"Hurts," is all Rodney's says. The word is short and emotionless and John leans down to kiss newly-cleaned skin because he can't help it.

Rodney isn't the one who gets marked.

He doesn't think anything as stupidly romantic as wanting to take all the marks that he uncovers -- whorled bruises, scrapes still beaded with dried blood and more -- onto his own skin. He does think about asking Rodney to reproduce them on John's darker skin using other means, but that's something they can do later. When the reds and blacks and blues are pinks and yellows and greens and John isn't so angry.

He still wants to go back and plant a few more charges. Just in case. Maybe find the son of a bitch who -- 

"Hey." The balance shifts, water flowing into new dimensions without ever breaking glass edges. Rodney cups John's elbow, eyes wide and too large as he looks upward. "I'm okay. It's okay."

It's uncharacteristic for both of them. Rodney doesn't give reassurance without insult and sarcasm to mask it, and John doesn't _need_ reassurance without a wry quip over top. But here, with the door shut, it works.

John nods, swallowing down his anger with a short kiss. "Lemme finish." Rodney nods, head hanging down as John carefully eases off hospital scrubs and slippers. He looks oddly small, like this, and John goes to his knees long before he needs to, running his cloth down strong legs. Rodney isn't supposed to act defeated. Not when he's here, back in Atlantis after too many hours of worry, and a few extra miracles beside.

John kisses Rodney's knees. "Think you can get up?"

"Staying here doesn't sound too awful. Atlantis could make the floor softer, maybe, and it's already warm."

"Your back would complain," John says, helping Rodney carefully to his feet. He tries not to think about how it's usually Rodney helping him, and rarely because of something unwanted. "Bed, McKay."

"Not s'posed to call me that," Rodney says, but it's a token protest and both of them know it. He leans heavily against John's side, cheek hard against John's shoulder, his skin still too cold. It doesn't feel like Rodney's skin against his own and that freaks John out more than the listless way Rodney lets himself be helped into bed.

If this were other times, John knows, there'd be sex. Sucking if it was John who was in need, fucking for Rodney. But Rodney's not getting it up for anything right now, and without Rodney to make the decision, it doesn't mean what it's supposed to, anyway.

John carefully turns Rodney's head, getting him onto his belly and then straddling his back. "I traded some stuff," he starts.

"Chocolate?"

Rodney could be _dead_ and he'd manage to sound outraged and upset at that horrible thought, even if he had to come back from the grave to accomplish it.

Rolling his eyes, John reaches for the night stand and prepares himself, letting the moment draw out. It's probably cruel to Rodney's heart rate, but it gets his mind back into more familiar patterns and that's more important. "No, not the precious _chocolate_. I'm going to have to give a couple flying lessons, though."

Rodney's shoulders shift, surprisingly big muscles under tight skin, preparing to push himself up onto his elbows. John's ready for it though, letting slick hands bracket Rodney's spine and _press_.

The noise Rodney makes is better than sex.

A complicated string of vowels and consonants leak out as John releases, then presses down again. Something pops and then _cracks_ under his fingers. "Yes, it's massage oil," he answers, not bothering to attempt a translation when he already knows the questions, "and no, I won't stop." He lets his thumbs move up the bumps and divots of Rodney's spine, careful of muscles far too tight to handle a quick release.

He almost says _I've got you, I'm here, it's okay_.

When his back cracks again, the noise Rodney makes is almost _I was scared, I missed you, help me_.

John works for a long, long time. Rodney's back is a mass of tension and has been long before his captivity, so he keeps his pace slow, the pressure firm, working each individual muscle into trembling relaxation. Rodney grows quiet after the first few minutes, breathing slow and steady, only murmuring if John finds a sore spot -- or misses one. His skin gradually warms under John's attentions, losing the clammy cold of wet limestone and dirty clothes, pinking into the familiar soft texture of a man who lives in comfort.

Occasionally, John pauses to rest his forehead on Rodney's back, just breathing. When he does that, Rodney gropes for a slick, jasmine-scented hand and holds on tightly.

When John's certain that Rodney's back is as lax and loose as he can make it, he shifts position and begins working other places. The glutes, strong, powerful thighs, long calves and toughened soles, then up to find dexterous fingers John loves against his skin, kneading muscles taut from typing and the exercise Rodney's reluctantly pursuing. John is sweating, breathing hard through his nose, and his own body is starting to tighten and tense in reaction. He doesn't stop, though, just rolls Rodney carefully to his back and begins the whole thing over again.

Rodney's eyes are closed, but John knows he's not asleep. He still looks too pale, too bruised in ways that don't show on skin, but, as John carefully works around the worst of the bruising on his chest, he also looks like _Rodney_ again. Like this is something Rodney had requested, basking in the attention like the cat he often emulates, and that more than anything lets John breathe easy.

What they have -- what they _are_ \-- is fluid and changing both outside the doors and within, but some things are always maintained. Some things they work at.

John doesn't notice when he starts rubbing just to feel the combination of prickly hair and smooth, smooth skin. He's obsessive about it, running his hands up and down in broad sweeps that probably feel good to Rodney but are all for himself, taking the reassurance he'd given. He covers every bit of Rodney he can reach, even running the backs of his nails over stubbled cheeks and the broken skin of Rodney's lips.

This time, when Rodney opens his eyes, they are focused and clear. "C'mere," he says.

John quickly strips then carefully fits himself against the length of Rodney's body, face buried between Rodney's neck and the pillow. Fingers work through his hair, rubbing his scalp and keeping him close and tight.

Words crowd on the tip of his tongue. _Don't do that again_ wars with _you are never going off world or, if you have to, I am never leaving your side_ and _Rodney, dammit_ Rodney.

He doesn't say any of them. Instead he wraps his arms around Rodney, hands flat against warm, familiar skin, and tells himself that he can sleep now.

Rodney already is.


End file.
